Lee, Sharon & Miller, Steve - Liaden Books 1-9

by Liaden 1-9 (lit)

  Absolute stillness. A silence into which no bird song dared intrude.

  Daav took another step forward; stood at the platform's center, hands fisted at his side, trembling badly at the knees.

  "At least tell me if it is true," he said, and his voice was trembling, too, "that I am formed as one-half of a wizard's match."

  Above, a sharp rustle of leaf, as if a flying mouse had landed. A seed-pod plummeted, striking the planks between his boots with peevish precision. Daav took a breath.

  "We danced and it was as if we had been born dancing in each other's arms. I held her and it was sweet—past sweet! And she was caught as tightly as I! Van'chela, so she said to me—beloved friend." He went forward another step; another would bring him to the trunk.

  "In all of this there was nothing such as my kin describe me—no beautiful mazes, no soul-songs. Even now, she may have lifted—have Jumped!—and I never the wiser, til Clonak called to tell me." He took the last step, raised his fists and lay them, palm-flat, against the trunk.

  "Aelliana Caylon," he said. "Clan Mizel."

  The bark was rough against his palms, grainy and a little damp. Somewhere in the branches below, a dawn-swallow began to sing.

  Daav sagged forward, pressing his cheek against the Tree.

  "Samiv tel'Izak does not please you," he whispered. "Aelliana excites no interest. Must I be alone, because Er Thom is not? Shall I tell Bindan that the marriage is canceled, because I have chanced upon one I might love? What shall I do when they cry breach of contract and demand ships and stocks and payments? How shall we keep Cantra's Law, when our ships are gone and we are turned out of our valley? How shall we stay vigilant for the passengers? How will we protect the Tree?"

  Nothing, save bark and damp and bird song.

  "I should have stayed with Aelliana," Daav whispered, and for an instant it was so: They had the day before them to lay plans and hustle cargo; a course laid Out, and far away…

  Madness.

  He pushed away from the Tree, walked back and picked up the seed-pod. He stood for a moment, holding it in his hand, then went to the edge of the platform and threw it, as hard and as far as he could.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The pilot's care shall be ship and passengers. The co-pilot's care shall be pilot and ship.

  —From the Duties Roster of the Pilots Guild

  A tall shadow crossed Clonak's light. He lay down his wrench and looked up.

  "Master Frad! I hardly expected to see you about so early after such a round of merrymaking!"

  The lanky cartographer grinned. "Snatched the words from the tip of my tongue, rascal! What's this you're about? Work? Never say so!"

  "I'm a changed man, since my goddess touched my life," Clonak told him piously. Frad laughed.

  "Then you're out, comrade. Or wasn't it Daav who escorted the Caylon to her bed last evening? I admit to being a glass or two over-limit, but hardly giddy enough to mistake length for girth."

  "Some of us," Clonak said with great seriousness, "worship from afar."

  "All of us, unless I misread the matter badly. I've rarely seen Daav so conformable. One might almost think him tame. And the pilot wears her heart on her face."

  "Yes, well." Clonak picked up his wrench. "The devil's in the brew, there, old friend. Daav's betrothed."

  "No, is he?" Frad stared, then moved his shoulders, answering himself. "Well, but he must be, mustn't he? Korval is none too plentiful, despite the yos'Galan's contribution. Daav's a sensible fellow—full nurseries are certain to be a priority with him. Merely, he had held himself aloof such a time…Well. Who is the intended?"

  "Samiv tel'Izak, Clan Bindan, as my father has it."

  "So? I've flown with the lady, as it happens. Piece of roster work for the Port. She unbends, eventually, but her delm's ambitious."

  Clonak sighed. "My father said that, too."

  "Hah." Frad glanced about. "Are we the only two about? Surely Jon hasn't left the care of the Yard to yourself?"

  "Jon's presence was required at the Port Directors meeting. Trilla called in a few minutes ago to say she'd be…late."

  Frad grinned. "Well, and it was a pretty pair she had with her last night."

  "Pretty enough," his friend agreed. "And willing. I have not yet seen my captain or my goddess, but, then, I hadn't expected them."

  "So, it is you alone! Well I happened by."

  "Why, so it is," Clonak returned with an evil grin. "You might actually be of use, you know, instead of nattering about and holding me from my appointed task. But you never were much of a hand at repair."

  "Ho, a challenge! What have you here, a vector engine? Stand aside, sirrah, and give a master room to work!"

  Sleep ebbed, leaving a headache behind. Aelliana sat up creakily in the pilot's chair, and rubbed her gritty eyes. The message-waiting light was on and she touched the amber stud, her heart lifting in hope. Had Daav—?

  The communcation was from the Port Master's office, verifying completion of roster-work for the Port, and recording a transfer of three cantra paid into the account of Ride The Luck, Aelliana Caylon, Pilot.

  She sat back, tears rising, then took a breath, saved the message to ship's log and opened a line to the Pilot Guild's bank. Three cantra earned by ship and pilots, ciphered thus: one share to the ship, one share to the pilot, one share to the co-pilot. She would transfer Daav's share at—

  Hands on the keys, she froze. Transfer his cantra? Yes, as surely. And what was his surname—his clan? What, indeed, was the number on his pilot's license?

  Aelliana sighed, shut down the connection and stood. Very well. First, a shower. The rest of the day, with its various necessities and pains, would proceed from there.

  As it happened, the repair required a team. They barely had the casing open when the crew door cycled. Frad looked round in time to see a nattily-dressed man of about his own age step cautiously within.

  For a long moment he stood on the threshold, holding the door back on the tips of his violet-gloved fingers. Then, warily, he came into the bay, mincing lightly, as if he feared soiling the soles of his exquisitely tooled boots.

  "Oh, la!" Clonak murmured, catching sight of the stranger. "A bird of paradise!"

  "Perhaps he is a buyer," Frad suggested.

  "Much more likely a seller," returned Clonak. "His gloves match his lace."

  Frad sighed.

  Twelve paces into the shop, the stranger paused, his sleek, well-kept head tipped to one side, gloved hands clasped loosely before him, as if expecting at any moment to see an abject lackey hurrying up to beg his pardon. Indeed, for three heartbeats, by Frad's count, he tarried, apparently awaiting this phenomenon. At last, disappointed in his patience, he turned his head and spied the two at work on the vector-engine.

  One glove rose with studied elegance. One finger pointed. "You there," he stated. "Fellow."

  Above the engine, Clonak snorted. "I haven't been 'fellow' to some dog wearing lace in the daytime since I was twelve years old."

  "Well, then," said Frad, putting down his probe and reaching for a rag. "I suppose he means me."

  Wiping his hands, he walked silently toward the dandy. At precisely the proper distance for speaking with strangers, he stopped and bowed, Adult-to-Adult.

  "Good day, sir," he said, also in the mode of Adult-to-Adult. "How may I serve you?"

  The dandy had eyes of purest cerulean, large and spaced appealingly, one on either side of his pert little nose. The eyes widened now, with, Frad supposed, insult, and the rather thin-lipped mouth turned down.

  "I will speak with the owner of this establishment," he announced, with no 'if you please' about it. Frad moved his shoulders.

  "Alas, the owner is away."

  The frown became definite and a gleam of displeasure was seen in the pretty eyes.

  "When," he demanded, "will the owner return?"

  "He did not say," Frad returned, unremittingly courteous. "Is there some way in which I might a
ssist you?"

  "Perhaps," the dandy allowed and drew himself up, fixing Frad with a very stern stare, indeed. "I," he announced, "am Ran Eld Caylon, Nadelm Mizel!"

  "Aha!" Clonak said soto voce from just beyond Frad's shoulder. "That explains the matter perfectly!"

  Nadelm Mizel directed what he doubtless wished to be a quelling glance at the source of this lamentable frivolity. However, the glance disintegrated even as it arrowed toward the miscreant. The thin mouth tightened convulsively, as if the nadelm might be ill, and the blue eyes skittered back to Frad.

  "You will produce Aelliana Caylon," he ordered. "At once."

  Frad raised his eyebrows, face displaying earnest, if laborious, intelligence.

  The nadelm frowned heavily. In a mode perilously close to Superior-to-inferior, he stated: "You will cause Aelliana Caylon to come before me, instantly. I have good reason to believe she is here."

  "Aelliana Caylon," Frad repeated, in a tone of wonderment. He glanced to Clonak, who stood lovingly stroking his mustache. "Aelliana Caylon?"

  "The ven'Tura Tables," Clonak told him kindly, and looked to the nadelm. "He's a bit of a block, you know, but a very good fellow, nonetheless. He would have remembered, in an hour or three. But, there, it's our turn, and we are wasting your time!" He struck a pose. "Cantra yos'Phelium!"

  The nadelm glared at a point just short of Clonak's chin. "I am not here to play Biographies!"

  "You're not?" Clonak demanded in fair imitation of idiot bemusement. "Well, whatever are you here for? I must say, buttercup, it is not at all the thing to be drawing people away from their work to answer your tease, and then refuse to take your turn! Too shabby!"

  "I beg—" Ran Eld Caylon raised angry eyes to Clonak's face and hastily averted them. "Master Binjali will hear of your insolence, my man!"

  Clonak clapped his hands. "Now, that I should like to see!" he cried. "Indeed, sir, you must stay and await Master Binjali. I insist upon it! Come, let me give you some tea—and perhaps a day-old bun, if the cat has left any whole—to ease your wait!"

  The dandy drew himself up, splendid in violet lace and tight black coat. "Sir, I see that you must be drunk."

  "Oh, no," Frad said soothingly, feeling matters had gone far enough. "Indeed, sir, he's hardly ever drunk this early in the day. Unless, of course," he added fairly, "he's still in his cups from last night."

  The nadelm fixed a stare fraught with awful menace on Frad's face. "Do you refuse to bring Aelliana Caylon or Master Binjali to me at once?"

  He gave it consideration, taking lengthy counsel of the ceiling. "Yes," he said finally, meeting the angry blue eyes blandly, "I do."

  "Very well." Ran Eld Caylon inclined his head. "I then instruct you, as the owner's nadelm, to seal Ride the Luck and bring the keys to me."

  Frad merely stood there, face bland, posture conveying polite attention.

  "I had said," Pilot Caylon's nadelm snapped, "you will seal Ride the Luck immediately and fetch the keys to me!"

  "I had heard you the first time," Frad said calmly. "I am of course desolate to find myself unable to accommodate you, sir, but I am not authorized to seal an owner's ship."

  "So. I shall then await the proprietor of this establishment." And it will, his tone stated, go ill for you then, fellow!

  "Proprietor can't seal a patron's ship, either," Clonak said cheerfully. "Port proctor's what you want, buttercup—but I'd advise against it."

  "I do not recall soliciting your advice," the nadelm informed him icily.

  "Yes, but it happens to be excellent advice," Frad said. "Matters such as sealing a ship fall firmly within the Port Master's honor and it is to her that you must apply."

  The blue eyes raked his face with a look meant to inspire terror. Frad lifted an eyebrow, face showing no sign of the fury leaping within. Really! This—popinjay—held rank over Aelliana Caylon? Liad grew less sensible each time he returned.

  "Very well," Ran Eld Caylon said at last. With neither bow nor courtesy, he turned and stamped toward the door, to the detriment, as Frad could not help believing, of his boot-soles. Fingers on the push-plate, he turned to glare.

  "Ship and owner had best be in this Yard when I return with the proctors!" With which awful threat he exited.

  Clonak collapsed against Frad's chest, wailing with delight.

  "Why, why, oh why would you not let him stop for Master Binjali?" He gasped, clutching the taller man's shoulder for support. "Only think how lovely it would have been to dust him and water him and turn him to face the sun—" He subsided into howls of merriment.

  Frad patted his head absentmindedly and set him straight on his feet. "All right, darling. Get a grip, do, and think why Pilot Caylon's nadelm wants to seal her ship."

  "Random act of cruelty," Clonak said promptly. "Did you see that mouth? Spoilt. Ill-tempered, too. And those shoulders, all held thus!" He demonstrated the rigidly level shoulders, screwing his face up in a very passable imitation of the nadelm's look of outrage.

  "Yes." Frad stared at the floor, thinking. The nadelm had been angry. One would almost suppose him to have not the least understanding of yesterday's flight. And yet, it was Liad and local custom was plain: A nadelm had the right to order a lower-ranked clanmember—unless the delm intervened.

  "She probably forgot to give him his proper grace at breakfast," Clonak commented, moving back toward the vector-engine, "and he's taken a pet. You know the sort. Something else will annoy him between here and Port Authority and he'll forget all about the proctors."

  "Yes," said Frad again, and sighed lightly. The Port Master would make very short work of Ran Eld Caylon's pretensions—which was no guarantee that the nadelm would not return to Binjali's. He was, in Frad's opinion, already on the outer edge of sensible and a scold received of the Port Master would not likely return him to reasoned judgment.

  "Did Jon say when we might expect to have the joy of beholding his face?" he asked, shaking off a sudden chill and walking back toward Clonak and the repair.

  Behind him, the crew door cycled wide.

  "Four minutes sooner and you'd have met the personage!" Clonak shouted gleefully.

  Aelliana frowned, looking from him to—Frad, Daav's especial friend, who had been at their table last evening. "Personage?" she asked.

  Clonak thinned his mouth, scrunched up his shoulders, and announced, in haughty accent: "Nadelm Mizel!"

  She felt her knees go to rubber, staggered and snatched herself upright.

  "Ran Eld, here!" she stared at Clonak, who had let his caricature fade into a look of genuine dismay. "Why?"

  "He wished to see you," Frad said calmly.

  "Wanted to seal your ship," Clonak added. "Told him he needed the proctors for that. Last seen, he was on his way to Port Master, where it's my belief he'll take delivery of one of her thundering scolds."

  "He wanted to seal my ship," Aelliana repeated, blankly. "Ran Eld knows nothing about my ship! I—" She swallowed, looked up into Frad's face. "It was on the news wires," she whispered. Her heartbeat was a hollow roaring in her ears. "Yesterday's lift."

  "I expect it was," he said, voice neutral. "You seem unwell, pilot, is there—"

  "It's nothing…" She gasped, pressing damp palms together. "I—forgive me. I must think."

  The two Scouts exchanged glances.

  "Pull up a stool and think away," Clonak said, almost serious. "Shall I bring you a mug of tea, goddess?"

  "Thank you, no," she managed and went numbly toward the clustered stools. She hoisted herself up on the first she came to and closed her eyes, hands gripped along the edge of the seat. After a moment, and another mute exchange of worry, the Scouts drifted back toward their work.

  Ran Eld. Aelliana ground her teeth to keep them from chattering. Ran Eld, here—demanding her presence, demanding her ship be sealed. Her heart wanted to scream that it could not be so. Her mind was made of sterner stuff.

  Fact: She was discovered.

  Fact: Ran Eld would exact his
price. Perhaps he would even beat her, as he had in the days just after her marriage, to reinforce her subservience.

  Aelliana shuddered. She had no illusions regarding her ability to withstand such treatment: She would surrender The Luck's keys willingly, if they were the coin that bought an end to her punishment.

  Options. One: Run. Leave now, lifting for the Liaden Out-worlds, and hope the luck smiled sufficiently for her to find cargo and contract before her outlawed condition became known.

  Objections: She would be leaving Jon dea'Cort and all his shifting crew open to Mizel's Balance. A very creditable case of kin-stealing could be shown to the Council of Clans, in settlement of which Jon might easily lose his Yard, while Daav, Trilla, Clonak and Frad might find themselves called clanless…

  No. She would not call disaster down upon her comrades.

  Option Two: Submit to Ran Eld's wishes and hope, in time, to appease him sufficiently that she might live in tolerable peace.

  Objections: Prior testing proved this application failed of success.

  Option Three: Go home and put her case before the delm.

  This was risky. Historically, Mizel championed her heir in any dispute. On several occasions, such as the matter of Aelliana's marriage to Ran Eld's friend, Mizel had allowed herself to be guided entirely by her son's advice and refused to hear any other.

  Balancing history was an indication that of late the delm had softened toward her middle daughter. If she were clever enough to show the profit a working ship might bring to the clan—many times over the single gain of a sale…

  An imperfect solution, but the best she could fashion, for the best good of herself and her comrades. The clan's fortune had not been—robust—of late, despite Voni's marriages. Mizel might very well be receptive to the addition of a new source of funding.